This node is a mushroom atop Salvador Dali's head. I'm sorry you have to read it. This piece of toast is cut into an S for "I'm sorry" and it is sitting atop Salvador Dali's head and the mushroom is sitting atop the toast. Salvador Dali smiles at you convincingly. His mustache is waxed. The sun (cooking the toast) is melting the wax from his mustache and Salvador Dali's mustache is blowing in the wind. It is getting longer as Salvador Dali smiles harder. It is as long as his smile. Salvador Dali's mustache is the answer. Someone hits Salvador Dali over the head with a yellow-paint-spattered baseball bat inscribed with the letters NFFNSNC. Men in wicker masks drag Salvador Dali over to the crocodile pit and he is expelled from the movement for reading scraps of paper drawn from a hat. The hat sits atop the son of man's head. The son of man turns his face away from the apple and bends over and vomits into a commode. There is a flash of lightning and the buildings are on fire. The world is burning. The mushroom has abandoned you. Garfield intones the unholy invocation, rings the bell, closes the book, and extinguishes the candle. Demons in the shape of men line the skies, queued on infinite invisible moving sidewalks, sliding silently toward their final engagements on the horizons. The airport voice booms out numbers over the din of travelers. Bob Dylan smiles at you convincingly. His beard is waxed. He leaves his briefcase with you. "I'm sorry but please don't open it." You hear the sound of a blind man groping an elephant. There isn't time for a shower and a shave. The pipes don't work anymore anyway. All you have is the mushroom in your hand and this cold moonlight night of pines and wet soil to explore the entirety of human history and to stare up in awe at the inexplicably infinite and majestic face of God.

It's six AM. A breath of cold mist revitalizes the vines. We shiver. Everything is recycling.

Birds eat stale chips, by the tractor, near the jellybean factory. A plastic bag reflects the sunlight. Grass grows through the gravel, by the tractor.

We look up.

Swallows turn swiftly beside the jellybean factory. A breath of warm air revitalizes the vines.

Everything is in front of the mailboxes on the next page. We spend time near the mailboxes on a warm day. The tractor is a place of you.

Down the road, we find Joe's Hotdogs.
We open our mouths to be.

It's easy dividing the hot dog bun,
we're alive. The hot dog is devoured.
Eating it takes forever, mouths going, enjoying.

A hot dog in a bun doesn't know these things.

It's hard, keeping our mouths shut and eyes open,
and keeping mouths open and eyes shut.
We quiver.

We peel the wallpaper in binary. We realize the dunes.

There is an albatross perched on the next page,
pecking at the cracks, taking a fork in the dunes.

We eat fruit, by the tractor, near the mailboxes,
where cool mist revitalizes the peaches,
beside the jellybean factory.

Looking up, swallows turn swiftly.

Plastic bags reflect in the light; going thirty in the dunes.
There's a little fork there, doing twenty.

A cat has a hot dog bun with everything.
Everything is going back there now.
Another egg emerges.

There's a fork in the hot dog bun.
Everything is in a hot dog bun.
Grass is growing through the gravel.

We're going fifty in a hot dog bun.
Everything's in a hot dog bun.
Now the sun is up; we're getting warmer again.

There's a photograph of that road, on a warm day;
Some grass, and a bit of gravel, by a tractor, beside the house.

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